


Unspoken

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Anorexia, Body Dysphoria, Car Accidents, Child Neglect, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, It gets kinda heavy, M/M, Marijuana, Reader Discretion is Advised, Suicide, Teen Angst, family arguing, hence the major character death, though it's moreso implied than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The intricate mentality behind the teenage mind remains shrouded in mystery, explained only by hormone imbalances and puberty. Why certain risks are met to obtain impossible, unrealistic standards, however, will never be completely understood.Although the most perplexing thing, in Dipper's opinion, is how eager people are to torture themselves.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> **I would highly recommend rereading the tags before starting this one–shot.** I went back and made sure that everything necessary is, in fact, there: but I don't want anyone going in without fully understand the contents in this story, considering it's not exactly a puppy and rainbows kinda thing.
> 
> I wrote this in regards to some recent events I would prefer not to mention, and some of what's in here is based off things I have seen/experienced in real life. However, I'm not going to mention what it is I've seen/experienced and what is there for the benefit of the story.
> 
> Just to be clear, one last time: **SOMEONE DOES COMMIT SUICIDE.** It isn't explicitly described or anything, only mentioned after the actual event, but I just want to make sure.
> 
> If you're still interested in reading, then scroll on ahead.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://featheredkit.tumblr.com)

High school.

The active personification of the transition from child to adult, as well as an alternate definition to the word _hell._ It could either be an education haven to those that seek knowledge in all its forms, whether it be in pursuing a career in science or the arts, mathematics or possibly an English major.

For Dipper, an aspiring surgeon, he spends most of his time in high–level science courses, including but not limited to anatomy and AP biology. Currently, however, he’s standing in the library, looking at the poster for after school clubs. Figuring he’s a junior and colleges look into extracurricular activities, he needs to get involved in something. Fast. And his crippling social anxiety isn’t exactly helping in the matter.

On the opposite side of the coin, high school can be _not_ so great. In fact, it can be pretty freaking terrible at times. Kids being excessively mean to other kids for the sake of feeling serperior, the kids being attacked losing their self–esteem as a result. Fat, ugly, gay, stupid… Why did it matter? Why _does_ it matter? Variety in shape, size, personality and identity should be praised, not frowned upon.

At least, that’s Dipper’s opinion, anyway.

The Gay–Straight Alliance is the first club Dipper mildly considers joining, but refrains when he subtly reminds himself that Mabel is already in that club. _Yeah, I don’t think that’s the best environment for us to be stuck together,_ he thinks, already having several imaginings of how Mabel would tease him. Playful sibling banter, but still embarrassing when seen by the masses. _Moving on._

 _Maybe…_ Dipper examines the paper posted for the philosophy club. _All ideas are welcome, huh?_ He reads further and, seeing that he has to fill out a form and hand it in to the teacher in room 304, takes one of the forms clipped under the paper.

He leans over the nearest table and takes a pen, throwing his name, address, signature, etc cetera onto the lines provided. Upon seeing he needs a parent’s signature as well, he groans. Discreetly, he slides into a chair, pulls out his phone, and texts his mom.

 _‘Hey, there’s a philosophy club and I wanna join but I need your signature. Do you mind if I forge it?’_ Considering the experiences his family has had with a certain great uncle of his, questions like this aren’t too morally questionable.

The text comes a few minutes later, his phone buzzing: _‘fine, but dont get caught. im not vouching for you.’_

With a quick assurance to his mother that he will not get caught, he pockets his phone again and carefully begins writing his mother’s signature, winding and looping letters in the way he’s seen her do a thousand times before. It isn’t entirely too difficult, as it starts neat and then tapers off into unintelligible scribbles.

When finished he places down the pen and scrutinizes his work, making sure it’s completely perfect. He soon decides it is and leaves the library, the form in his right hand and his books gathered under his other arm. He informs the librarian that he wants to turn in a paper. She gives him a pass and wishes him a nice day. Dipper wishes her the same thing.

Since the library is located on the first floor, Dipper has to run up to the third floor. His feet pound on the stairs as he rushes onwards, aware that he only has a few minutes left in his study hall. Next is AP calculus. He cringes as he recalls his teacher’s reactions to students that are late to class. _Yeah, definitely don’t wanna get on his bad side._

The door to room 304 is open when he arrives. Still wanting to be polite despite the fact, he knocks and sticks his head inside.

It’s empty besides the one person sitting in the front row, a guy. He is focused on a laptop screen, earbuds in. He didn’t hear.

Dipper knocks again, this time using more force. The sound reverberates throughout the room.

The guy rips the earbuds out and swivels in his direction, his hazel eyes wide. He’s blond, his skin caramel–colored, with freckles scattered across his face. He’s adorned in a black T–shirt and blue jeans, a yellow hoodie tied around his waist.

“What is it?” he asks, calming visibly.

“I’m, uh, looking for the teacher here,” Dipper coughs, attempting to prevent their gazes from meeting. _God, I wasn’t expecting this much human interaction._ “Why is this class so empty?” he questions immediately after, focusing on the motivational posters that litter the walls. Old quotes. Cheesy quotes. _Gandhi?_

“This is a block class,” the guy explains. “The students take a lunch break between the periods. I’m here trying to catch up on work, though. She went to the bathroom, by the way. It’ll be a few minutes.” He returns his attention to his laptop.

Dipper swallows. “I need to turn in this form for the philosophy club,” he says, waving the paper in an antsy manner. He can’t stand being here for much longer. The silence terrifies him. “Listen, can I leave this here and you can just give it to her when she comes back?”

The guy suddenly seems interest. “Philosophy club?” He leans his arms on the back of his chair, staring at Dipper with half–lidded eyes. “I’ll have you know that you have to be smart to join the philosophy club. And creative. And thoughtful. Many kids couldn’t handle the pressure and quit.” He examines his nails. “Not me, though.”

“Are you insulting my intelligence?”

“No, babe,” is the reply, voice oozing a sick kind of confidence. “I’m insulting _you.”_

Dipper feels his cheeks turn red, but whether that’s from being called ‘babe’ or his quick growing rage is beyond him.

"What the heck?” he demands, wondering what he did to be tormented like this. “I came here to drop this off and you—” He takes a deep breath. “Never mind. I’m gonna leave this here. Bye.” Best to walk away from a situation before it escalates. He puts the paper on the nearest desk and turns to leave the room.

Unbeknownst to him, however, the teacher has returned from the bathroom. He nearly bumps into her on the way out the door. His face turns from red to white. Mortification.

“Oh my gosh,” he says, his mouth moving without him meaning it to, “I’m so, so sorry! Uh, I mean, it was an accident. I was going…I was…”

“He wants to sign up for the philosophy club,” the guy he’d been talking to a second ago bumps in, watching the current events with a grin. He motions towards the form. “I told him to leave that there for you. He was about to leave.”

 _What? That isn’t what happened at all!_ Dipper retorts, but figures the odds aren’t in his favor. There’s no use in complaining, anyway. He stays quiet as the teacher walks over and grabs the item, reading it over.

“Alright, looks good,” she tells Dipper. “Our meetings are on Thursday, as you probably already knew. We’re continuing a discussion from last week, but you can feel free to join in if you want to.”

“Thanks.” Dipper offers her a smile. Then his gaze falls on what’s–his–face. “Uh, thank you for your help, too,” he grumbles, though there wasn’t much help coming from _that_ general direction.

He stands in place stupidly for a few seconds, not really remembering what he’s supposed to do next. It comes to him when the bell rings, signaling he has to go to his next class. He blinks. “Oh, right. Thanks again.” He balances his books in his grasp and leaves, only having four minutes to make it to the opposite end of school.

He doesn’t think much about the events that had transpired here until he’s at home, sitting at the table with his dad. They’re getting ready for dinner, his mom in the kitchen preparing everyone’s plates. Mabel is upstairs in her room, doing _girl_ things. Nothing that Dipper would want to know about.

His mom is the one to bring it up. “So no one said anything about ‘my’ signature?” she asks, smiling. She places Dipper’s plate down in front of him, as well as a fork and knife. Chicken cutlet and mashed potatoes. The usual.

“Nobody _was_ going to say anything,” Dipper informs her, rolling his eyes. He stabs his fork into the cutlet and begins to slice through the meaty interior using the knife. “Unlike Mabel, I’m _smart_ about these things. I would’ve just grabbed another form if it didn’t look perfect.”

“Oh, be nice to your sister,” his dad says, though there is no venom in his words. “She has her own talents.” His tone soon grows sarcastic as he adds, “Unfortunately for us, those talents don’t involve lying and illegal activity.”

Dipper shakes his head. “Just remember that _you’re_ the one that suggested we spend a summer with Grunkle Stan. What I learned while there is merely a consequence.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The staircase pounds, Mabel descending. She materializes behind Dipper and checks his plate. She groans, reeling on their mother. “Why do we keep eating this stuff?” she asks her. “I have a body image I’d like to maintain, you know.”

“I don’t really see what the problem is,” their mother replies, not even looking at her. “If you don’t wanna eat what we’re having, then make yourself a sandwich.”

“Ugh, Mom, I can’t have a sandwich either. It has _sugar,_ and sugar makes you fat, too! Come on, this is basic stuff, people!”

Dipper, refusing to interfere, stuffs his face with potatoes. He sees his father doing the same.

“Why are you so worried about your weight?” Their mother asks, placing down her utensils and finally acknowledging her daughter, her expression pulled into a deep, thoughtful frown. She isn’t disapproving, merely concerned. “You were never like this before. You used to eat sugary foods all the time.”

“And that’s why I’m so fat!”

“You’re not fat, honey.”

“Yes, I am!” Mabel squeezes her stomach, trying to make a point. She’s a little pudgy, but it isn’t what Dipper would consider fat. She’s fine. “Do you see this? _Do you see this?”_

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” their father cuts in abruptly, standing. He leaves the kitchen. Dipper watches him go.

Mabel and their mother, on the other hand, don’t seem to notice him. Their mother looks as if she’s going to stand, but ultimately decides against it. “You’re not fat. Eat dinner.”

“I’ll eat _this,”_ Mabel snaps, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket at the center of the table.

“That isn’t dinner.”

“Well, it doesn’t make me fat, so it’s dinner to me.”

“Mabel—”

“Goodbye.” Mabel retreats, running past Dipper and out the kitchen. She heads up the stairs. _Pound, pound, pound._ Then silence. Dipper, having been used to situations like this, doesn't say anything, his attention fixed on his food.

“Ugh,” his mother groans, burying her face in her hands.

Dipper, knowing both sides of the argument, can see that she’s just as frustrated as Mabel. Not because she doesn't care, but because she can't fully grope why Mabel would be acting like this over something seemingly so menial. At least, seemingly menial in _her_ view.

To Mabel, it’s… Well, Dipper isn't sure why Mabel is so sensitive about her weight if she was never this way before, though he believes it must have to be caused by a minute of hormones and the unattainable standards of beauty that are constantly normalized in the media. He narrows his eyes at his food, deep in thought. _Or something else._

“I’ll talk to her after I'm done eating,” he says. _Better give her a few minutes to cool off._ His mother nods at him in response. _Figures she’d be too scared to talk to Mabel herself._ Despite her trying her best at being a parent, Dipper can't help but feel a flare of anger towards her, as he tends to do on the occasion. Why can't she try _harder?_

Regardless, Dipper finishes dinner in the next couple minutes, putting his place and utensils in the sink before proceeding to head upstairs. On the way out the kitchen, he grabs an apple from the fruit basket, figuring Mabel should have more to eat.

The door to her room is locked, so he has to knock. When there isn't any reply from the other side, he quickly adds, “It’s Dipper.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mabel says, sounding nasally. She had been crying. “Come in. But lock the door when you get in. I don't wanna talk to anyone else right now.”

Mabel is sitting on her bed when he enters, doing as she instructed. He walks over, sitting down next to her and handing her the apple. “Here,” he tells her. “If you want more you're gonna have to get it yourself.”

“That’s fine.” She takes a bite. Her mouth full, she asks, “S’ how’d it go, signing up for a club? Did you chicken out last minute?”

Oh, right. He hasn't gotten the chance to update Mabel yet. Taking a deep breath, he goes on to explain to her what had happened during study hall today, from when he’d found the philosophy club poster and decided to join up to when he'd met that jerk in the classroom he went to.

“Wait.” Mabel stops him. “Can you describe that guy to me? I might know him if he’s in Ms. Johnson’s class.”

Dipper reluctantly recalls the details, worry forming when her features brighten in recognition. “Oh. _Oh._ That guy’s name is Bill. He's in the GSA club with me. I've also seen him around the halls a few times.” She raises a brow. “He seemed really nice from what I could see.”

Putting together the details he has just been given, Dipper reaches a possible hypothesis. He cringes. “Wait. If he’s in the Gay–Straight Alliance…and he was…” _He called me babe._ “Good God.”

“You're so ignorant, Dip,” Mabel chastises, poking his cheek with the hand that’s not holding her dinner. “Can’t even see when a cute guy is hitting on you.”

“Well, I guess I'm gonna have to put up with _that_ for two hours every Thursday,” Dipper deadpans, rubbing his forehead. Mabel laughs, and he's glad to see that she’s in at least semi–decent spirits.

Speaking of which… Dipper looks at her. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“The way you've been acting these past few weeks…and how you've been fighting with Mom a whole lot, plus what happened at dinner… Is, like, something going on? You’ve lost some of your, uh, Mabel–ness lately.”

Mabel casts her head down. Her curly hair falls in strands on either side of her face, disguising her expression. It’s completely uncharacteristic of her, not talking to him right away. _That basically confirms something’s wrong._

He places his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn't have asked,” he whispers, more or less a statement intended to be internal monologue. Regardless, Mabel hears him. She leans into his hold.

“I dunno,” she says after a moment. “It’s… Occasionally, I just kinda wish I was like some of the other girls at school. They're really skinny without even trying.”

“Yeah, because they eat leaves and twigs,” Dipper jokes, attempting to make light of the situation. “You know that type of beauty is, like, super dumb, right? And if you were to lose weight, you'd have to continue eating sticks and leaves to keep it off. Metabolism, Mabes.”

Mabel swats him away, not in an angry manner. “Sure, sure,” she mutters almost inaudibly, taking another bite out of her apple. “What if I told you it was a little more than that?”

“What do you mean?”

“If someone was to,” Mabel begins, “say some mean words to me in regards to my body image”—here she pauses, considering her word choice—“hypothetically”—she throws the apple in her trash bin, wiping her hands on her shirt—“what would you do about it? Hypothetically.”

“Well,” Dipper replies, gazing at her with suspicion, “in a case like that I'd have to ask who it is that's treating you that way. _Hypothetically,_ of course. Then, if you were to tell me who that person is, I would logically report that person to an authority figure—such as a teacher or the principal, for instance—and get them in trouble, because that's what that person would deserve. Nobody should be treated like crap by conceited assholes.”

“Hypothetically,” Mabel whispers.

Dipper scowls, knowing that in no way this is merely a hypothetical situation. He chooses to focus on the boy band posters pinned to the walls as he addresses her again. “Mabel, do Mom and Dad need to know about this? Are you being bullied?”

Mabel lurches forward suddenly, grasping his arm, as if that would stop him from informing their parents. Her expression is urgent, pleading. “No, no, no, not at all!” she exclaims, her nails digging into his skin. “I, uh, might have been exaggerating a little bit when I was describing it. She–”

“She?” Dipper interrupts. “Who’s _she?”_

“No one!” Mabel rolls her eyes. “You don't need to make a big deal out of it, honest. In fact, you making a big deal out of it is the literal _last_ thing I need you to do. I…I have the situation under control. She's messing around! I doubt she means anything by it.”

“It doesn't matter whether or not she’s messing around of it’s making you feel bad about your body.” Mid–statement, Dipper feels her grip tightening on his arm. “I’m not gonna let it continue. I hate seeing you like this.”

 _“Promise_ me you won't tell anyone,” Mabel presses, moving in closer. Her hair tickles his cheek slightly. “You don't have to protect me. I can _handle_ this.”

“Mabes—”

_“Promise.”_

Dipper swallows, boxed in. He can't allow her to be bullied but, at the same time, he doesn't want to be the next person on her bad side.

 _Mabel…bullied._ The idea, to him, sounds rather far fetched. _I never would have thought someone like Mabel is capable of being picked on. She has tons of friends and is social and everything, so I figured…I don't know. This is crazy._

“Fine,” he forces out through his teeth. “I'll stay quiet about this girl messing with you, but if you have another huge outburst because you think you're fat, which you're not, I'm saying something. Understood?”

Mabel sighs, releasing him. “Fine,” she echoes. “Can you leave now? I'm gonna need to be one–hundred percent prepared for when Mom decides to come in and talk to me.”

Dipper leaves her alone then, exiting her room and closing the door on his way out. He tugs at the hem of his shirt uncertainly as he walks to his own room, mind racing at a mile a minute.

 

He wakes up on Thursday morning with a headache, morning breath stinging his tongue. He rubs his eyes before proceeding to force himself out of bed, turning off his alarm and picking out clothes to wear after his shower as well as a towel and a brush.

The bathroom door is open when he arrives, the light on, signaling that Mabel isn't finished getting ready in there. He taps his foot impatiently. _She wakes up thirty minutes earlier than me._ “Mabel, come on!” he calls to her, glaring at his watch. “I don't wanna miss the bus this time!”

“A minute!” Mabel shouts in return, sounding distressed. Dipper vaguely remembers the discussion they’d had only a few days ago.

“What’s wrong?” he asks cautiously.

“Nothing,” Mabel replies, and he can sense that's a lie. Twin telepathy.

But he doesn't have the opportunity to question her about it, either, because she quickly appears at the door and pushes past him without a word, obviously hinting that she isn't interested in a conversation.

Dipper enters the bathroom and closes the door, taking a shower and getting dressed in half the time it takes him to tame his unruly hair. A habit, he maneuvers his bangs in order for them to cover his forehead.

When he’s done, he turns off the light, leaves. He’s just put his things in his room and grabbed his backpack when he stops at the top of the stairs, hearing yelling coming from the living room. He sits on the top step, waiting it out. Wonderful.

“Mabel!” his mother is shouting. “I told you already to keep your snacks in your own personal space! I can't find the sugar anywhere.”

“Um, it’s where it usually is? You have to, like, push things around to find it.” Mabel laughs sardonically. “Funny, isn't that what you always snap at _me_ about when I can't find something?” Her voice is gradually rising. “And they aren't snacks. They’re _protein bars.”_

Dipper takes out a book and begins to read. Hopefully this won't take too long.

The fighting between Mabel and their mother is usually worse whenever their dad isn't around. Nobody can quite place their finger on what it is that lightens the tension in the atmosphere—that he’s always more willing to back up Mabel in her side of the argument, maybe, or that he's always the one to take out ice cream and mellow out the situation.

Dipper, on the contrary, prefers to stay out of these disputes. Namely because he figures it’s not his business. Partly because he doesn't want anyone mad at _him._

Things quiet down a few minutes later, as they tend to do, and Dipper closes his book. Slowly, he begins to descend.

Mabel has already left the house, how the door had slammed a few seconds being an indication. The other indication being their mother pacing the living room, a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are glassy, wet with tears.

She hardly registers Dipper entering the living room. “What happened to us?” she asks.

Dipper clears his throat. She looks at him.

“Oh, Dipper, I'm sorry,” she says. “Mabel’s on her way to the bus.” She hesitates. “I should have called you—”

“It’s fine,” Dipper insists. He gives her hug. Apparently appreciating the gesture, she returns the gesture. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mason,” she responds, easily, kissing his hair. “I’ll pick you up from the activity bus after school. Have fun at philosophy club.”

Dipper walks out the door. However, he steps outside with one foot and keeps the other inside, glancing at his mom a final time. “By the way,” he adds, “there's something I needed to talk to you about. It has to do with Mabel.”

“What is it?”

_Promise._

Dipper opens his mouth, then closes it.

“Dipper, what is it? You're going to be late.”

“I just wanted to say…” Dipper pauses. “Things are going to get better between you and Mabel. You just have to believe it will.”

A smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Dipper mutters, closing the door.

He gets to the bus stop a few minutes prior to the bus actually getting there, which is a little late in his standards. Mabel doesn't look at or speak to him in the short period they stand together, making him slightly nervous. _Did I do something? Does she think I told Mom?_

The bus pulls up. Mabel steps on first, her feet slapping hard against the metal steps. Dipper gets on after her, saying good morning to the bus driver and taking his usual seat—second row. As he isn't very social, he doesn't belong at the back of the bus, where the popular kids—including Mabel—sit and loudly distract the bus driver, plus occasionally litter.

Assuming his normal routine, Dipper jams in his ear buds, turns on his music, and leans his head against the window. His eyes slide shut.

 

The school day goes by longer than usual for him, his eyes heavy. He has to stop from falling asleep on several occasions, from shoving another mint in his mouth to lightly slapping himself in the face. His exhaustion is made worse when he remembers that he’s staying here for an extra two hours. _Ugh, what was I thinking?_

He’s walking to his final class when he notices the posters up near the guidance wing, saying things like _‘Feel free to stop by anytime!’,_ and _‘It’s better to talk.’_ He wonders if Mabel has seen these yet and, if she has, whether she dismissed them as nonsense or actually considering going to guidance at one point or another. Unfortunately, the former seems more probable.

His last class is creative art, an elective he never wanted anything to do with but got put in anyway. He uses a ruler to make the shapes for his abstract art, wondering how Mabel is doing. _I hope she's not getting picked on. I hope this girl, whoever she is, takes the hint and goes away so everything can be right with my family again._

He almost walks down the stairs to get on the bus when the day is over, then remembers. Again. He adjusts his bag over his shoulder and begrudgingly goes upstairs instead, hating this. Hating everything. He shoots Mabel a quick text.

The classroom is void of life except the teacher, Ms. Johnson, when he arrives. She’s sitting at her desk, typing something on her laptop, and looks up when he enters. “Oh, Mason,” she greets, “there’s a free seat over there.” Here she points.

“Thanks,” Dipper says, sitting. He opens his bag and takes out a notebook, wanting to take notes about what's discussed in here. “You can call me Dipper, though. Everyone calls me Dipper.”

Ms. Johnson seems confused about the nickname, but nods regardless. “Alright.”

The next few students to walk in are people has never seen, so he mainly ignores them. However, when the guy he had met when signing up for the class—Bill, Mabel said his name was—walks in, he clenches his hands reflexively.

“Hey, how are you?” Bill asks, sliding into the seat next to him. He looks as if he would go on, but Ms. Johnson snaps her fingers in his direction, cutting him off.

“That's not your seat,” she tells him matter–of–factly. “Up here.”

“Talk to you later, babe,” Bill whispers, blowing him a kiss before moving up. Dipper wrinkles his nose in distaste.

More students soon arrive, and eventually all the seats in the class are filled. Dipper takes a deep breath at the teachers looks at him, feeling the need to introduce him to the rest of the students here. He weakly offers a smile at the few kids that do stare at him in response, uncomfortable beneath such scrutiny.

Bill grins at him. He frowns.

Next they begin their weekly discussion, to which Dipper is glad. Until he’s called upon.

“That’s what _I_ believe, anyway,” Bill is finishing, reading his prepared speech from what he has written in his own notebook. He lifts his head and nods towards Dipper. “What about you? Name a personal philosophy _you’ve_ followed this week.”

“I, uh…” Dipper searches for words. He really, _really_ hadn’t expected to be picked. He finds that he has no exact answer in mind, but that doesn’t prevent him from skipping over to his last resort—nonsensical ramblings.

“A personal philosophy of mine,” he states, “is that I should always strive to be better and that I should never settle on one thing or be content with the way things are at the moment”—here he pauses, considering how Mabel and his mom argue, how it’s much worse than it used to be—“because things change.” He notices Bill’s head listed to one side, listening, and goes on, “How I follow this philosophy every day is by trying my best to…well, be the best. I try not to conform to social expectations and I’d say it’s helped me a lot.”

“Ah,” Bill says, not giving anyone else the chance to respond. “Y’know, I’ve heard those same beliefs somewhere else… Would you agree that you’ve derived some of these beliefs from transcendentalism? You get what I’m talking about, right? Ralph Waldo Emerson?”

Dipper nods. “There’s nothing wrong with following those beliefs. People have changed the way society functions in the past. Just because things are different now and that belief system isn’t necessarily in, uh, power doesn’t mean it isn’t relevant anymore.”

“Huh.” Without further comment, Bill turns away.

The remaining hour and a half goes surprisingly well, Dipper jotting down any other philosophies people follow that he hadn’t yet considered. By the time it’s time to leave, he has a full page and then some filled, satisfied with his results. He gets a bus pass from Ms. Johnson on the way out and goes outside, where the activity buses are waiting.

Too late, he realizes something vitally important.

He’s never been on any of these buses.

He looks at the unrecognizable numbers, wondering which one will lead him to his community, when a hand lands on his shoulder. He does a semi–circle, facing his possible attacker.

“Oh,” he mutters, “Bill.”

“You sound excited to see me,” Bill comments, chuckling. His smirk fades. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t recognize these buses,” Dipper explains despite his internal insistence not to, “and I don’t see a security guard I can ask…” He scratches his arm uncertainly. “I could go on the bus and ask the driver." 

“Forget it,” Bill scoffs, throwing his arms behind his head. “Where do you live?”

Dipper states the name of his community.

“Why take a bus that’ll only bring you to the gate when you can take a car that’ll bring you straight home?” Bill offers, jerking his head towards the backlot, where all the self–driving students park. “Come on, you don’t want to be around these losers.”

“We aren’t friends!” Dipper glares at him. “I don’t even _know_ you. For all I’m aware, you could be, like, a maniac or something.”

“Your sister and I are friends,” Bill reminds him. His features soften. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry I picked on you earlier. I just felt like the only way I would be able to talk to you is if I bugged you a bit.”

“You thought being annoying was going to impress me?" 

Bill shrugs. “Did it?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dipper quickly glances towards the buses. Then at Bill. Considering.

“You don’t have too much longer. The buses’re gonna leave soon.”

“Fine,” Dipper settles, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket, “but I need to text my parents about it. I don’t want them freaking out about me getting in a car with some stranger.” As he finishes this sentence, he is already pulling out his phone. Reluctantly, he follows Bill.

They only walk for about a minute or so, Bill pulling out his key fob and pressing a button. A green car sitting a few feet away beeps in recognition.

“There she is,” Bill says, opening one of the back doors. “Put your bag in here.” Dipper does as he opens the driver’s side door and jumps in. Certain that his bag is in a place where it won’t fall and his stuff will be ruined, Dipper goes to the passenger side. 

“It’s kinda cool that you have a car.” Dipper buckles his seatbelt. “How old are you?” 

“Twenty,” Bill replies nonchalantly. “I failed a few grades.” Seeing that Dipper is moving to unbuckle his seatbelt then, he laughs. “No, no, I’m playing. I’m seventeen. I’ll turn eighteen in March.” He winks. “Legality, here I come.”

Dipper ignores the last part. “So you’re a senior.”

“Indeed.” Bill puts his key in the ignition and turns on the car. “What’s your address?” 

“What?”

“For the GPS.”

Dipper relays his address hesitantly.

Bill types the address into his phone and hands it to Dipper. Then, placing a hand on the shift, the other on the wheel, he puts the car into reverse. “What about you? You’re too smart to be a freshman.”

“Yeah, I’m a junior.”

“Upperclassmen goals,” Bill jokes. “But, seriously, I can’t believe I couldn’t see that Mabel’s your twin. Honestly, I hadn’t realized it until she told me at the GSA on Tuesday.”

 _Oh, boy._ “You guys were talking about me?”

“We’re the gossip girls,” Bill confirms, the car reversing. He shifts it into drive and they head out. “We met at the beginning of the year and became friend instantaneously. Though, if you ask me, I’d say she’s been a little, er, quiet recently.”

“Exactly!” Dipper agrees. “I mean, Mabel’s been acting…weird. She’s self–conscious about certain things she’s never really cared about. Ever. I don’t like it.” Speaking, he wonders why he’s having such a serious conversation about his sister with someone he hardly knows. “Wait, why do _you_ care so much?”

“Would you prefer me to say that your sister is a useless nobody whose mental wellbeing means nothing to me in the slightest?” Bill suggests, frowning. He briefly glances at Dipper before returning his attention to the road. “Yeesh, what kinda jerk do you take me for?" 

Dipper shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I just… I’ve been trying not to worry about Mabel too much. She told me that it’s nothing, but I don’t think she’s telling the truth.”

“She might be getting bullied.”

 _Exactly,_ Dipper almost wants to blurt, understanding that is most likely the case. _And the reason that she doesn’t want me to say anything about it is because this girl that’s doing this is really,_ really _mean. Maybe she’s been threatening Mabel, coercing her into silence._

“Kinda sucks that schools don’t do much to discipline asshole kids,” Bill says after a moment of silence, tapping the wheel thoughtfully with one finger. “I mean, yeah, you could suspend them ‘n stuff, but what about the kids that don’t _care_ about getting in trouble? What are you supposed to do with them?”

“Take a right at this next exit,” Dipper instructs him, staring at the map on Bill’s phone. He lives less than twenty minutes away, thank God. Recalling the question, he replies, “I wonder if it’s like that with Mabel. That, no matter how much trouble the girl picking on her gets into, she’s just going to keep at it.” 

“Expel the snotty bitch, in that case.”

“I’m not sure it’s that simple.”

“It should be.”

More silence. Dipper involuntarily tightens his grip on Bill’s phone.

“It’s crazy,” he muses, his mind stretching farther and farther away, the world dissolving into a meaningless tangle of uninterpretable nonsense. _Nothing but problems stacked upon one another in a never–ending line, wearing you down until the day you die. What is the point?_

“What’s crazy?” Bill turns down the radio to hear him better.

“Mabel always presented herself at the happy–go–lucky one. Like, she’s the friend that comes to you and cheers you up when you’re sad.” Dipper lifts his head and stares blankly ahead. “She’s popular, she’s caring, she helps people whenever she can. I would never have expected her to be bullied. I mean, I just assumed.”

“That’s what sucks about assuming,” Bill remarks. “You’re sure that someone is fine, that they have it better than you, but in reality they’re…suffering.” He sighs.

Dipper hums. “What about you, though?" 

“Me?” Bill recoils. “Oh, me. Heh.” He makes a so–so gesture. “Can’t complain. You?”

“I wish home wasn’t so hostile right now,” Dipper admits. “Mabel and my mom argue so much and I’m not sure home much longer I can handle it.”

“Me and my mom aren’t exactly best friends, either,” Bill says, “but, if it makes you feel any better, you can you just call me when it’s too much for you. Hang out at my place a bit and chill.”

Dipper snorts. “You’re persistent.”

“I don’t give up in the middle of a pursuit, that’s for certain." 

The remainder of the ride is quiet, Dipper leaning his head against the window and occasionally telling Bill where to go based on the GPS directions. At the entrance to the community he lives in, he turns off the phone and directs Bill on his own.

Eventually, Bill is pulling into the driveaway at Dipper’s house, putting the car in park. Dipper practically flings the door open, meaning to leave as soon as possible. Kindly, Bill removes his seatbelt and reaches into the back seat to grab Dipper’s backpack for him. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Dipper begins, “for, uh, driving me home and talking to me.” He hesitates. The door hangs open. He closes it quickly, wanting to say something else. “You’re kinda cool, I guess.”

Bill smiles wide. Then his gaze travels down to Dipper’s lips. _Oh God._

“Do you mind if I…?" 

“Yes!” Dipper blurts, not thinking. “I mean, _no._ I don’t mind, but I—I’m not really—”

“Be cool, alright?” Bill cuts in, rolling his eyes. He leans forward and presses his lips against Dipper’s, a light, innocent kiss.

It doesn’t last long, however, as Bill pulls away only a few seconds later. Meanwhile Dipper, entranced, finds himself unable to move.

Bill clears his throat. “Get outta my car.” He holds out Dipper’s bag. 

“Oh. Right.” Dipper takes it. “T–thanks again,” he stammers nervously, opening the door again.

“Sure. See you around.”

“Yeah,” Dipper says stupidly, “see you.” This time he gets out, closing the door. He runs into the house as Bill’s car pulls away and leaves.

His father is waiting for him in the living room. “What took you so long?”

“I was saying goodbye and stuff,” Dipper says, hardly giving him a glance. This isn’t exactly a lie.

Mabel and his mother are playing cards at the table, obviously over the argument they’d had this morning. How long the peace here will last, though, Dipper doesn’t want to know. Mabel waves. “Hey, you wanna join in?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec,” Dipper responds, and goes to put his things away.

 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Dipper assumes a relationship with Bill that is disgustingly _romantic,_ officially beginning when Bill gives Dipper his phone number during the next philosophy club meeting.

They begin constantly texting each other after that, Dipper tiredly and dubiously giving Bill his schedule one night, to which Bill responds by ‘accidentally’ bumping into him into the halls on more than one occasion. And, realizing that his study hall is Bill’s lunch, Bill decides to go and visit him on some days, plopping down next to Dipper in the library and watching him study with his head rested on his arms.

“Stop that,” Dipper tells him, lips twitching as he tries not to look up from the book he’s reading. “It’s creepy.”

“Mmm.” Bill grins. “Wanna make out?”

“In the library?”

“Why not?”

Dipper shakes his head. “You’re an idiot." 

“A fun idiot,” Bill corrects proudly. “Anyway, my mom isn’t gonna be home tonight. Do you wanna come over and we can study together?" 

The way Bill enunciates the word _study_ does not bode well with Dipper, who lowers his book and gives Bill an exasperated look. “What kind of pushover do you take me for? I know you don’t like studying.”

Bill shrugs. “There’s no need to be like that. Besides, I’m not an animal. Long make out sessions are good enough for me.”

Dipper is still doubtful. “I’m not sure how well tonight will work. My parents aren’t usually cool with me going on unless it’s planned a few days prior." 

“Ugh, fine.” Bill purses his lips. “Hmm…how about Friday? I’m not busy with clubs then and it’s right before the weekend so you don’t have to worry about your bedtime or whatever.”

Blushing, Dipper protests, “I _don’t_ have a bedtime.”

“You might as well, considering how much your parents seem to trust you and Mabel.” Bill rises from his seat, stretching his arms above his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“The only reason your parents let me drive you home that one time was because you had Mabel tell them I was her friend,” Bill points out. “And I’m guessing they’re going to need to meet my mom before you’re allowed to hang out at my place.” Dipper doesn’t comment. “It’s like anyone without connections to your family are out to get you.”

Dipper exhales. “They just care about me and Mabel’s safety.”

Bill furrows his brows. “At least your parents care.” And, refusing to allow Dipper to ask what that means, he says, “I can probably sneak out and back in without the librarian noticing. Do you want anything from the cafeteria?" 

“Nah, I’m good,” Dipper says. “You can get something for yourself.”

“Cool.” Bill sits.

Dipper stares at him, perplexed. “You don’t wanna eat? It’s your lunch period.”

“Sure, but the cafeteria food is terrible. I’d rather take a bite at what people decide to leave in the bathrooms.”

“You don’t eat here?”

“Is that a problem?”

Dipper gapes. “Yeah, it’s a problem! You need to eat food to live, right?”

Bill pats his head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I usually eat a big dinner when I get home, anyway. Makes up for it.”

Dipper frowns. “Sure.”

“Friday, then?”

“We’ll see.”

 

Friday evening comes swiftly, finding Dipper in Mabel’s room as he holds out multiple shirts in front of a mirror, trying to figure out which will looks the best on him. Mabel appoints herself his judge in this whole affair, examining him between bouts of looking at her phone and texting people.

“Red and blue are the best colors on you,” she comments unhelpfully.

Dipper swivels towards, holding a red flannel in one hand and a blue T–shirt in the other. “Which is it?”

“Whichever you feel in your heart is right,” Mabel responds flippantly. She regards the flannel. “Bill strikes me as a classy guy, though, so maybe you should go with that one.”

“Wait, so do I take your advice or go with my heart?” Dipper demands. “You’re sounding _really_ contradictory and it isn’t helping?”

“Do Mom and Dad even know this is a date?” Mabel asks him when he turns to the mirror again.

“Uh, not exactly?” Dipper places the flannel on Mabel’s dresser. _Casual is okay, right?_ “I mean, I told them I was hanging out with a friend, and that’s not exactly a lie. Bill and me _technically_ aren’t boyfriends.”

Mabel shakes her head. “You poor fool.”

“Okay, can you politely disagree _instead_ of that? I’m about to go out and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be in a good mood for it." 

There’s a knock at the door. Their mother’s voice filters into the room. “Are you ready yet, Dipper?”

“Give him a second!” Mabel shouts in her direction. It sounds a lot more angry than it should. She rolls her eyes and whispers, loud enough for only Dipper to hear, “God, she needs to stop hovering over us, like, every two seconds.”

“Well, he just pulled into the driveway!”

“What?” Dipper decides on the blue T–shirt and throws it over the shirt he’s already wearing. Carefully, he begins to shrug out of the stale one, knowing his twin sister is standing _right there_ and all.

“Here, I’ll take it,” Mabel offers, and he tosses it towards her while simultaneously bolting for the door.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, giving her a quick hug. His dad is upstairs, so he doesn’t bother and leaves the house.

Seeing Bill’s car in the driveway, he waves widely in greeting. Then, not wasting any time, he opens the passenger side door and gets inside, shutting it after himself. “Hey, Bill.”

“‘Sup, Sunshine?” Bill teases, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “Let’s get outta here.” He begins to reverse.

Dipper is glad he settled on the casual look, taking in the Bill’s disheveled appearance—hair, unbrushed, several strands standing on end, as well as his yellow hoodie littered in food stains. His left leg bounces up and down crazily, a fast, subconscious motion. His eyes are wide and alert, a light reflected on the surface Dipper isn’t familiar with.

“Do you have anything in mind for dinner?” he asks. 

“Uh…” Dipper swallows. “We agreed on your place?”

“Oh.” Bill laughs. “Right.” He presses his foot down a little harder on the accelerator.

Dipper laughs, too, though his is more uncertain than anything. “Is there something wrong? You look…excited today.” Now he sees why his parents are so particular about who he hangs out with. His stomach twists. 

“Where do you live?” he asks Bill after a few seconds. His parents had given him a curfew when they let him leave the house, ten p.m., so he hopes the drive to Bill’s house won’t be too long—but, noting the speed at which Bill is already driving, and going faster still, he can assume that it definitely won’t be ‘boring car trip with the family’ long. “Hah, Bill, you didn’t go this fast last time…" 

Bill reaches over and turns up the radio, ignoring him. _Ouch. Hint received._ 80s rock music begins to fill the car, a tune Dipper vaguely recognizes. He would enjoy it, too, if it wasn’t for the fear gripping his heart at the fact they’re going _faster,_ his heart pounding twice as fast as the car is racing.

He nervously reads the speedometer. Over fifty miles per hour and still climbing. He turns his head to look out the window instead, preferring to focus on the scenery, the trees and the grass and the road, whizzing by, whizzing…

Hitting the turn signal, Bill spins the steering wheel and makes a sudden left. Dipper jerks to the right systematically, having to push a hand against the window in order to prevent his head from slamming against it. Dizzy, his mind swimming, he becomes dimly aware that someone is honking at them but, taking in Bill’s indifferent grin, sees that this warning hasn’t knocked any sense into the person that needs it the most.

_Maybe this date was a bad idea._

“Bill, slow down,” he says. 

“What was that?” Bill shouts, not having heard him over the radio.

Dipper rolls his eyes, more frustrated than annoyed. However, this frustration is replaced by fear when he looks back at the road. His blood freezes.

_“Bill, slow down!”_

Bill is confused before he notices, too, his expression contorting into that of horror—similar to the way a drunk’s would in the instant an accident occurs. Exactly the situation they almost wind up in. Dipper instinctively braces himself for impact, nails digging into the dashboard.

Bill slams on the brake and the car screeches in protest, lurching, then stopping shakily directly behind another car, one that is sitting at a red light. Dipper can read the car’s stickers, not able to process the words clearly but knowing they exist nonetheless.

He blinks once, twice, his vision beginning to blur. It takes him a full minute to realize they’re fine, breathing heavily, running his hands over his face to make sure this is real. No scratches. Not dead. Alive. Fine. _It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine…_ He exhales.

He reaches over and smacks Bill’s shoulder. In his fear, his angre reaches a boiling point, his rationality thrown out the window. His blood thaws and flows through his body at an amazing pace, warming him down to his toes. “What the _hell_ is _wrong with you?_ Pull over!”

“Dipper—”

_“Pull this damn car over right now!”_

Bill pulls over without protest, his hands shaking. Once the car is in park, Dipper unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out the car, Bill calling his name again barely registering in his ears. He brandishes his phone from his pocket and starts typing a text to his mom.

His phone is taken from his hands before he can hit send, replenishing the rage his adrenaline has left behind. “Give that back!” he snaps. “I wanna go home! Are you completely _insane?"_  

“I’m sorry,” Bill tells him, returning the phone. “It’s just that I—”

“What? You what? Have you completely lost your mind?” Dipper visibly calms, though remains on edge. “You…” A thought. “Are you drunk?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t know what that was, what _any_ of that was!” He waves his arms wildly at the area around them in some indiscernible gesture.

“No, I’m not drunk,” Bill assures him softly, taking his hands. “Listen, I—” He pauses, cringing.

“Are you okay?" 

“I get headaches like this sometimes,” Bill replies. He rubs his forehead. “There are some pills in the compartment between the front seats. Can you open it up and get them for me?”

Dipper goes in the car, opening the middle compartment and digging through the miscellaneous items littered around inside. It takes almost no time for him to find what he needs, an orange prescription bottle. He brings it to Bill, who has grown usually pale.

Bill opens the bottle and pours four of the pills into his open palm. Tipping his head back, he brings them to his mouth and swallows dryly.

“Is it okay to take that many?” Dipper questions, concerned. Bills, not replying, puts the bottle in his hoodie pocket.

Remembering that he’s supposed to be mad, Dipper pushes at Bill’s chest, standing up straight so they’re almost at equal height. “I’m going home! There’s no way I’m getting in that car with you!”

Bills furrows his brows. “What are you gonna do? Wait for your parents to get here? I’m not letting you stand out in the cold by yourself.”

“You should have thought about that before you went and tried to get us killed!” Dipper can feel the tears he had been trying to hold in filling his eyes, threatening to fall. “How did you get like you were earlier?”

“Dipper, get in the car. I’ll drive you home." 

“I don’t trust you!”

_“Mason.”_

Dipper stops, gaping.

Bill moves closer. “I’m fine now,” he emphasizes, and Dipper has no choice but to believe him. The manic light that had been there is gone. “Let me drive you home so you don’t have to stand out here. Please.”

Dipper nods, albeit hesitantly. “Alright.”

He gets in the car first, so he doesn’t notice Bill taking another pill. The label on the bottle reads a name that is not his.

 

Despite the night’s experience not doing much in changing the dynamic between Dipper and Bill at school, the natures of their conversations became less casual and more formal, as well as Dipper rejecting any suggestions made by Bill to hang out via half–assed excuses he’s aware Bill can understand are nothing but B.S.

Choosing to keep his parents and Mabel blissfully unaware of The Car Incident, as he had soon coined it, he simply states that Bill is too extreme for him, a way of putting it lightly. 

“But you didn’t complain when you two drove home the first time,” Mabel comments during dinner a few weeks later, a plate of salad fixed on her mat. She and their mother had made a compromise a while ago, Mabel eating food at dinner if it was healthy—one that has been stifling any exceptionally bad fights.

“I dunno,” Dipper says, picking at his rice. “I mean, he’s cool and all, but I don’t think we should...continue to be friends.”

“You know,” their father inputs, “I could drive you over to his place tomorrow morning. I, for one, think you should give him another chance.” He winks.

Dipper blanches. “Wait, how did you…?”

“I might’ve told them you and Bill are into each other,” Mabel says sheepishly.

“I have no idea why you thought we would have a problem with it,” their mother adds, smiling. “As long as you’re happy, why should it matter who you like?”

“It’s not like that…I mean…” Dipper runs a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”

“I can pick you up around seven,” their dad informs him. “I get off at six and it’ll take me a little longer than usual to drive to his place.”

“That’s no problem.” _A whole day alone with Bill, after what happened. Does he deserve that?_ Dipper squeezes his fork. _Unless his mom is there. Or his…dad? He’s never mentioned a dad._  

Regardless of his worries, the next morning rolls around and Dipper leaves with his dad at around nine in the morning. He falls asleep during the car ride, the next thing he’s aware of being his dad nudging him awake.

They say goodbye to each other and Dipper walks up to the front door, his first time doing so. The only car in the driveway is Bill’s. Hmm.

He raises a fist, ready to knock, but halts. _What if Bill’s what he was like during The Car Incident? Or…_ He shudders. _What if we’re alone and Bill tries something he shouldn’t?_

The door opens. Bill smiles. “Hey, what’s up? You made it!” he cheers. “Of course, I knew you would, anyway.” He laughs. “Wipe your feet on the mat. My mom doesn’t like it when there are shoe tracks on the carpet.”

Dipper takes off his sneakers when he gets inside, closing the door. “I thought your house would be bigger,” he says.

“It’s just me ‘n my mom,” Bill tells him casually, “so, logically, it doesn’t need to be. Two bedrooms and one bath,” he introduces, leading Dipper down the hall. “My room is down here, far away from my mom’s. God bless.”

“You don’t like your mom?”

“She doesn’t care about me.” Bill does an about–face, rubbing his hands together.“C’mon, have you had anything to eat yet? Do you want anything?”

“Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks.” Dipper follows him into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he looks inside. Then promptly flinches. “Uh, _alcohol._ A lot.”

“Sorry, that’s my mom’s,” Bill explains, glancing into the fridge over his shoulder. “Can you hand me the eggs from the top shelf? There should be orange juice hidden behind that mess somewhere. The cups are in the third cabinet to the left.”

“Why does your mom needs this much liquor?” Dipper hands him the eggs.

“She doesn’t. That’s the problem.”

It takes Dipper a moment to understand what he’s saying. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“She started drinking after my dad left,” Bill says quietly. “Or maybe it’s the reason my dad left. I’m not entirely sure. I don’t ask and she doesn’t tell.”

“That’s horrible.”

Bill cracks an egg into a pan. “Doesn’t matter. She never comes into my room or anything. I’m never bothered. I make the food for us.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“I’m done avoiding this conversation, so…” Dipper clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about it. When we almost crashed, were you high?”

Bill sighs. “Yes, I was.”

“Why? On what?”

“‘Cause it’s how I make it through some days,” he answers, “and weed.”

“Weed?” Dipper lowers his voice. “Isn’t that illegal?” He sees there are only two eggs on the pan. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I already did.” Dipper can tell he’s lying. “I have a friend that gets it for me. I never keep too much on me, though. If I ever get caught, I don’t wanna be put away for _too_ long.”

“Does your mom know?”

“She’s a drunk. She never knows _anything.”_

“Where is she?”

Bill glares at him. “Out. Drinking at a friend’s house, probably. Now stop interrogating me.”

“I'm not interrogating you,” Dipper says, slightly upset that Bill is the angry one when he almost got them both killed. “I’m sorry if these questions are too personal.”

“It’s fine.” Bill rubs his face. “Listen, can you go wait in the living room and watch TV or something? I wanna be left alone right now.”

Dipper doesn't protest, leaving the kitchen. He plops down on the sofa in the living room and mindlessly watches the news until Bill calls him back in, sounding a lot more cheerful than he had a few minutes ago.

Bill hands him an omelet, a plastic fork already set on the plate. “Here, tell me if you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Dipper assures him, taking a bite. He hums happily. “See? I knew it would be good. Thanks.” He frowns. “Are you sure you don't want to eat?”

“I'm not really hungry right now.”

Dipper lists his head. “I'm actually not sure that I've ever seen you eat before.” He takes another bite of his omelet, but it doesn't taste as good when he's thinking about Bill being…no. That would be impossible. “You’re always seeing me during your lunch.”

“I told you that the school food is shit.” Bill wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Forget it. Let’s get you to sit down somewhere.”

Dipper eats the rest of his breakfast quietly, making sure to use his best table manners—and, when he’s finished, Bill takes the plate and goes to the kitchen to put it in the sink. Dipper curls up on the couch while he waits for him to return, gaze flitting around the space that surround him. _How does it feel to live here?_

“You wanna go watch movies or something in my room instead?” Bill asks, grabbing the remote from off the coffee table and shutting off the TV. Satisfied, he puts it down. “It’s more cozy in there,” he explains, when he notices Dipper’s expression.

“Oh. Right.” Dipper stands.

“What did you think I—,” Bill starts, but stops mid sentence. He almost seems amused at the prospect. “Yeesh, what kinda guy do you take me for?”

“How long have you lived here?” Dipper asks him, wanting to change the conversation to something more casual. He hopes his blush isn't too obvious. But that worry is squandered when Bill takes his hand, their fingers interlacing. Forget it. Totally obvious.

“Since my dad walked out.” Bill closes his eyes briefly, a signal of him trying to calm himself down. They head down the hallway, the dark, unpainted panels that are the walls filling Dipper with a sense of dread.

“Yeah, I don't like it either,” Bill adds, as if having read his mind. “One day I'm gonna fix all this up, paint it and make it a prettier color. How’s yellow sounding to you?”

“Um, _no.”_ Dipper snorts. “What about blue? A limitless sky, limitless possibilities.”

“Spoken like a true philosopher,” Bill praises. They’re in his room now, him closing the door and turning on the light, brightening the space. Not take it makes too much of a difference, considering it’s late in the morning.

Bill’s bed is in the upper–right corner of the room, a mere twin size. A television propped on a dresser is conveniently sitting at the foot of the bed, a larger dresser to the side. Based on how several of the drawers are stuffed to the brim, Dipper can safely assume that’s where Bill puts his clothes. There is also wall closet with a slide door, several coats hanging in there.

“I’m sorry it’s so cramped,” Bill apologizes, sitting on his bed. “Hey, c’mon.” Dipper steps towards him, confused, only for Bill to grab his wrist and pull him into his all. “There. That's much better, isn't it?” He winds his arms around Dipper’s waist.

Dipper, cheeks burning once again, lays his head against Bill’s chest. “T–thanks.” _Wait, why is he…?_

“Anyway”—Bill retrieves the TV remote, having to reach over to do so, his warmth leaving Dipper for but a second—“let’s see what's on, shall we?”

They spend the next few hours talking to each other about everything, as well as watching movies and anything on that looks interesting. Dipper eventually moves out of Bill’s lap, rolling over onto his side instead. Since there isn't much room to work with, he huddles near the wall.

His legs start to become numb after a while, pins and needles stinging at him painfully. He yawns, glancing at his watch to check the time. Almost half past three. _I can't believe the day’s gone by this fast._ He turns to Bill, who has fallen asleep leaning on the headboard. His face is pale, freckles like stars scattered across his skin. His breathing is heavy, labored.

Dipper crawls closer to him, relatively concerned at the latter fact. Cautiously, gently, he places a hand on Bill’s shoulder, which feels to be more bone than skin. Just like his chest had felt.

 _Oh, God,_ Dipper thinks, slightly scared, and moves in closer still. Bill inhales sharply, releases the air.

Then he smiles. “‘Sup?” he slurs sleepily, opening his eyes one at a time. Dipper retreats, mortified. His smile fades. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s—I’m—” Dipper clutches his shirt. “Nothing. Never mind. Are you lightheaded?”

Bill is clearly puzzled by the question. “No, I'm fine. Why are you—”

“Is there anything wrong?” Dipper blurts. “A–and if there isn't anything wrong, which I hope there isn't, y–you would tell me if there wasn't?” He looks at Bill desperately.

Bill laughs uncertainly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I _mean_ it, Bill!” Dipper snaps. “It’s ‘cause you told me you're fine, but you _can't_ be fine if you have to live _here_ and you smoke weed and your mother is an alcoholic! Besides, you…you…” He shakes his head. “I should be mad at you for the car thing, but I'm not. I'm really worried. About you.”

“You shouldn't stress yourself out about what's going on with me,” Bill sighs, cupping his face. He rubs his thumbs over Dipper’s cheeks reassuringly. “You have enough going on, Mabel’s problems considered…Are you crying?”

Dipper hasn't even noticed the tears falling from his eyes—but, now that it’s brought to his attention, he couldn't care less that they’re there. He’s tired of being strong.

“It’s like, okay, everyone is getting along at home and that’s _great,_ but”—he sniffs—“it doesn't feel real. It feels forced. I really wanna tell someone about Mabel getting bullied, but she made me promise I wouldn't, but I'm not sure how long I'm gonna be able to keep this up for!”

Bill recoils. “She's gonna be mad at you if you tell anyone?”

“Yes! That's the whole point of keeping it secret!” Dipper bursts into new tears, suddenly crashing into Bill, burying his face in his neck. Bill eventually starts to rub his back.

“She should realize that it’s hurting you to keep this in…”

“It’s not her fault!” Dipper says. “She just doesn't want Mom and Dad to overreact about it.”

He can practically sense Bill rolling his eyes. “At least you have parents that care enough to overreact.”

Dipper doesn't have anything to say in response to that. He holds Bill tighter.

Bill pulls away, however, and before Dipper can ask him why Bill kisses him, clutching at his waist. He responds instantly, arms finding Bill’s neck, his head tilting to get more of the contact.

Bill pushes against him, Dipper finding himself on his back, still not caring. The weight that had been lying on his check since finding out about Mabel’s secret is temporarily lifted and he knows he’s free, _free,_ as long as he's here with Bill. For a second, the idea he’s having to go home in a while comes to his mind, but he brushes it aside in favor of the moment.

Their lips parting, Bill gives him a glance. Asking. Dipper gulps but nods, threading his fingers into Bill’s hair when he kisses his neck next, sending electricity throughout his entire being. His skin burns wherever Bill touches him.

“Are you gonna be alright?” Bill whispers, and Dipper has no idea whether he's talking about Mabel or the none–too–savory activities they are currently engaged in.

He thinks he knows, but he says, frantically, “Yeah. Yeah, sure, fantastic. Keep going, please.”

Bill hesitates, as if to add something else onto that, though he eventually disregards it, placing a hand on Dipper’s waist and tugging at his shirt with the other, placing kisses on his collarbone. Dipper takes a long breath, his lashes fluttering.

He’s never done anything remotely like this, ever. Sure, he's kissed people before—it _is_ a part of being in high school—but _this._ This is entirely new territory. His parents would tell him that he's being reckless.

 _Ah, who gives a shit?_ Dipper fists Bill’s hair and their lips crash together again, more passionate, Dipper running his hands along Bill’s chest—until Bill pulls away abruptly, wiping his mouth. Without any explanation he moves away and sits upright, his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

Dipper takes a moment to collect his remaining sanity. “Bill?”

“I’m sorry, I'm stupid,” Bill grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. He brings his knees to his chest as Dipper sits next to him. “You're stressed. I shouldn't have done that.”

“Show me.”

Bill flinches. “Trust me, you don't want to—”

“Just…take your shirt off, Bill,” Dipper says, angry. Angry because he doesn't want to see what he knows he's about to see, but has to if he’s ever going to receive closure.

Hesitantly Bill obeys, lifting his shirt up and over his shoulders, then balling it up and placing it in his lap.

Dipper was right. Bill’s a skeleton, a shadow—the ribs beneath his skin are visible, his stomach nothing but a hollow space. Inspecting his back, Dipper also catches sight of how his spine juts out and is left completely visible. He’s almost tempted to touch it, but wonders if it would hurt Bill. _Not that it’d be a change. He’s hurt himself enough, doing this._

Bill ducks his head, ashamed. “Not a word.”

“How about one?”

A grunt. “Fine.”

“Why?” Dipper thinks about Mabel, how she’s been acting lately due to her weight. She would never do _this,_ right! How would he know if she _is_ doing it?

“It doesn't matter why I _started,”_ Bill replies. “What matters is that I can't stop.” He runs his hands over his arms, shivering. “I'm cold.”

“Do you…ever eat?”

Bill turns on him, expression blank. “It used to be three bites per meal. That's how I started out. Then it was two bites. One bite…Now I eat, but only a few bites per week. And, yes, I do realize this has been a mistake. Do you realize”—he grits his teeth—“how much money treatment costs? I've looked into it. A ninety day program at nine thousand dollars a day and, _surprise,_ insurance doesn't cover it.”

“Can’t you just eat again?”

“I wish it was that simple.”

“But of course it is!” Dipper yells, waving his arms frantically. “I mean, yeah, I suppose we would have to ease you into it because you're probably malnourished and would die if you started all at once…”

“I'd rather not have to take that risk.”

“So what you're telling me is that you'd rather be like _this?”_ Dipper gestures towards him. “You’re gonna die pending a decision to stay this way, you know!”

“You don't get it, you—”

“William?”

Both Dipper and Bill snap their heads up in surprise, neither expecting the sudden call. Bill places a finger over his lips, a wordless act signaling silence. _It’s my mom,_ he mouths. Out loud, he shouts, “In my room, Mom!” Quickly, he throws on his shirt and walks to the door, opening it. “Who drove you here?”

“Today? Lisa,” comes Bill’s mother voice from down the hall, coming closer. Blissfully ignorant. “She's so nice. She says hi, by the way.” She pokes her head into the room, smiling wide. Then she spots Dipper, who shrinks away instinctively. “Who’s your friend?”

She looks almost exactly like Bill, dark skin and blonde hair, which is curdle and in a mess of tangles. She has put on a tad too much makeup, her appearance akin to a party clown: lips bright red, eyes surrounded by a circle of blue. Her dress is something a teenage girl would wear, sparing details.

“This is Dipper,” Bill says, not allowing Dipper to speak for himself. “He's my friend from philosophy club, so I invited him over to come up with some philosophies.”

“Oh.” Her smile widens. “Okay. Have fun!” She leaves the room.

Dipper is dumbfounded. “That was uncomfortable,” he comments. “Also…your friend?”

“She hates gays,” Bill explains. “I had to tell her that. It’s weird, though.” He scratches his head. “She usually doesn't come home until later.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Some people are just born judgmental.” Bill motions for Dipper to follow him. “I’m gonna go make her food. Wanna help?”

“Sure.”

Dipper helps Bill make dinner for his mom, some fish and shrimp. She eats the meal happily and informs Bill that she will be, in fact, going back out, to return at a later hour—and soon someone arrives, her waving goodbye to her son before she exits the house. A half hour later, Dipper’s dad arrives, earlier than anticipated.

“I thought it would be around seven,” Dipper complains, checking his watch. Almost six. _Did he get off early?_

“See you around,” Bill grumbles, obviously upset despite giving him a kiss goodbye, preceded by a tight hug. “Text me when you get back to your place, alright?”

Dipper promises that he will and gets into his dad’s car, buckling his seatbelt. His dad asks him how his day was, but he can barely hear him. _How can I continue to let people I care about torture themselves?_

The ride home is quiet until they’re a few minutes from home, when Dipper says, “Mabel’s being bullied.”

His dad looks at him. “What?”

“She told me not to tell you, but I can't keep it in anymore. I don't know who it is, but someone’s been making her feel bad about her body.” Dipper slumps in his seat, the weight removed. “That’s why she and mom have been fighting.”

He doesn't care anymore. Let Mabel hate him. At least now he knows he’s finally done what’s right.

 

“Mabel!” Dipper shouts, banging on the door to his sister’s room two weeks later. “Talk to me, please! I’m sorry I told Mom and Dad, okay? You can't keep this up forever.”

As he had expected, there is no response. The music that had been playing grows louder, much louder, and Dipper takes the hint. Again. Walking to his room, defeated, he wishes she would speak to him. He hasn't told anyone about Bill’s predicament and, much like it had been holding in Mabel’s secret, it’s been tearing him apart.

He’s avoided Bill since the visit, not sure he would be able to face him in person again without thinking of the nightmare–inducing sight that lies beneath his clothes. Bill, on the other hand, has been texting him almost non stop, wondering where he is, why he's not talking to him anymore. Dipper hasn’t the courage to reply, staring at his phone, the keyboard open, yet words are not being typed.

His phone buzzes not long after he reclines on his bed, and his thoughts are a mantra of _What now?_ as he reads the new message.

_‘listen, im not gonna be in school tmrw cuz i have to stay home w/ my mom, but talk to me when you can, k? i know youve been reading these.’_

Dipper sighs. _Why not just block his number?_ he asks himself for the umpteenth time. Truth being, his body won't let him.

It’s Sunday. He's not in the mood to start a new school week tomorrow. _Can't I just stay in bed for the rest of my life?_ He throws a pillow over his face.

He’s chosen to block out Mabel’s arguments with his parents, seeing as they’ve gotten twenty times worse in no time. If he had known it was possible for his home life to become this much worse, he wouldn't have gone running his stupid mouth in the first place.

_I hate myself._

 

In school on Monday, during his study hall, Dipper does what he swore he wouldn't do—he texts Bill.

_‘Are you coming back to school tomorrow? I need to talk to you about some things. Mabel won't talk to me. Plus your eating disorder has been eating away at me.’_

He’s glad he reads it over before hitting send, fixing the last sentence.

_‘Your eating disorder has me kinda fucked up, man.’_

Good.

Send.

The reply is instantaneous.

_‘thank god its u. alright. until then.’_

Dipper buries his face in his hands. _God, give me strength._

 

Unfortunately, the next day shows no better results. He receives a text while on the bus from Bill explaining that he won't be in school today, either.

Dipper tries talking to Mabel after she gets home from the Gay–Straight Alliance. She turns her face away from him and barges up the stairs.

 

On Wednesday Bill says he won't be in school again. Dipper, curious as to what the problem might be, tries to call him. He doesn't answer the phone, and the next text Dipper sends him isn't read until Thursday morning. Figuring there's no point in trying, he doesn’t attempt resuming communication with Bill for the rest of the day.

At least, until his mother asks him, “What ever happened to Bill? I thought you two liked each other.”

“Things are kinda complicated right now,” he admits, his hands folded together in his lap. He’s sitting on the bed in his room, his phone sitting at his side. “I don't think he’s been feeling too well lately.”

“Well, maybe you should try to cheer him up,” his mother suggests. “Who knows, you could be the light of his life.”

Dipper ponders over her words as she leaves him be. Then, deciding, he picks up his phone.

_‘I hope you're doing alright.’_

And, adding quickly:

_‘I miss you.’_

The texts aren't read when he goes to sleep that night, nor when he enters school the next morning. Friday. He should be happy that this long, agonizing week is over, but in truth he feels sad. Sad and scared. He keeps checking for alerts on his phone, as if something bad might happen at any second.

During the last block of the day, an emergency assembly is called in the auditorium, the whole school instructed to go. The students are called down by grade, first freshmen, then sophomores, juniors…As the senior class arrives, Dipper scouts the students walking in hoping Bill will be here.

He isn't.

Mabel is sitting a few rows behind him. He turns his head and sees her, staring directly at him. Her face is pale, her mouth slightly agape. She knows something.

The principal walks up the front podium and, grabbing the microphone there, begins to speak.

“We have a most unsettling announcement to share today,” she says, her expression betraying no emotion. “One of our students has passed away…”

Even before she continues Dipper covers his ears, internally screaming. _No, no, no, no, please don't. I’d rather not know, so don't say it I'm begging you—_

“A senior, Bill Cipher, was found deceased in his home this morning, his mother reporting the incident to the police. He was hanging from a rope in his closet, so the death has been labeled as an apparent suicide.”

The entire auditorium breaks out in noise, every student engaging in side conversations at once. Dipper, meanwhile, becomes lightheaded, his entire world falling apart at once. _He didn't…_ But even as he thinks it he knows it’s true. His vision blurs, his hearing fades into a dull blur. His surroundings disappear.

The principal is saying something, silencing everyone, and resumes her speech. Dipper hardly makes it out. Something, something, guidance, something, something, memorial service, more words, a tree planted in Bill’s name, words, words, words, donating money, something else…

He has no idea how much time passes between him losing it and arms circling him, but when he comes to he realizes it’s Mabel. Tears stream down her cheeks in fine lines.

“I'm so sorry, Dipper,” she whispers, holding him tight. “I’m so sorry.”

Everyone is leaving the auditorium. The assembly is over.

Dipper can't move, however. He can tell Mabel can't, either.

A few girls walk past them then, one of them going about the usual teenage gossip. “He didn't seem like the type to commit suicide…”

Mabel glares in their direction. “Oh, shut the fuck _up,_ Pacifica!” she snaps. _“No one_ seems the type, you stupid bitch!”

The posse leader, apparently Pacifica, scowls and leaves. The other girls trail her.

Immediately, Dipper understands. _Pacifica is her, the bully. How is she just allowed to_ walk around _like this, with all that she’s done to Mabel?_ He's almost tempted to do something, _anything,_ but a look from Mabel stops him.

_She can fight her own battles._

“C’mon, let’s go to guidance,” she mutters, taking his arm. “You’re in no condition to learn.”

 

“His mother didn't find his body until the next morning,” Dipper is saying, reiterating the information he and Mabel had received from their parents, who’d gone to see Bill’s mother herself to give her the family’s condolences. “He was hanging in his closet _all night.”_ He holds his pillow close, retreating into the feeble position he had grown way too used to since the assembly.

It’s been eight days since everyone found out about Bill’s death, the day of his memorial at the school—where they will plant a tree in his memory and place down a plaque with his name. Though the event is only in a little more than an hour and they still haven’t left the house, Dipper refuses to get dressed. The white dress shirt and black pants sitting on his dresser can collect as much dust as they want, for all he cares.

“Oh, Dipper,” Mabel says, throwing an arm around him, “you shouldn't think it over too much. You're only gonna make yourself feel worse, and we don't need that.”

“I sent him a text. No, two texts,” Dipper corrects, hardly registering the reassurances Mabel is giving him. “Do you think I was too late? They were never read. If I had sent it earlier, maybe—”

“Stop,” Mabel demands, “doing that. Pitying yourself. What is wondering what _could have_ been going to help accomplish, huh?” Dipper opens his mouth to reply, but she beats him too it, answering, “Nothing. Jack shit. Listen, I miss Bill, too. He was an awesome friend. Probably the single _real_ friend I've had in high school.”

“What do you mean?” Dipper asks, sniffing.

“Everyone is so materialistic,” Mabel explains softly, her voice low and her gazes distant. “It’s like most people don't want to talk to me unless my hair is brushed _just_ right and I have my makeup on, as pretty as can be. But Bill told me I looked nice _every_ day, even when I felt ugly and fat. It was nice.”

“There’s, uh, this other thing about Bill,” Dipper begins, reluctant. Would it be right, telling her?

“That he had an eating disorder?” Mabel guesses, smiling slightly. “Yeah, I know that, too. We were having a cupcake party at the GSA one day and he wasn't eating, so I coerced him into it a little bit. He took a bite, right, but when I turned away I caught him spitting it out and throwing the rest of the cupcake into the garbage. Peripheral vision, baby.” Her expression shifts. “I would never do that, Dip. Starve myself. I don't think I need to.”

“What about Pacifica?” Dipper questions. He skipped school all week, not feeling up to it, so he wouldn't know. “Sorry I haven't been—”

“Keeping tabs on me? God, Dipper, you think I would mind? I’ve been trying to give you your space lately. A lot has happened, and I figured I would need to let you breathe a bit.” She frowns. “Pacifica hasn't been bothering me since I snapped at her, which is good, but—”

“Kids?” Their mother’s voice drifts into the room, light and cautious. “Are you ready yet? We need to get a move on soon or we’ll be late.”

“Sorry!” Mabel replies. “I’ve been distracting him.” She smacks her forehead. “What a dummy dumb.” Standing, she places a hand on Dipper’s shoulder before leaving the room, closing the door.

Dipper reaches for his phone. The messages he’d send that night are now read, though it hardly matter because that’s only from the policy checking Bill’s phone for a cause—bullying, familial problems, anything worth noting. Dipper doubts the first is a possible reason, however, considering what he's seen.

He puts his phone on silent, not wanting any notifications, and picks up the rose sitting at his side instead. It’s yellow, Bill’s favorite color. He plans on putting it at the base of where Bill’s tree will grow.

The school will also be collecting money for Bill’s funeral, meaning they will be giving the money to his mother. And, remembering what _she's_ like, she’ll likely use the money for alcohol. Dipper sure hopes not. In fact, he hopes she’ll sober up and do what’s best for Bill, not for her. Better that than to let his body rot away in the morgue or wherever it is.

Dipper squeezes the rose’s stem, relatively glad it’s had its thorns picked off. He can no longer control his tears, yet again, which now espace his eyes and flow down his face, two twin waterfalls. He lifts his head and glares at the ceiling.

“Why?” he asks Bill, who won't answer. _“Why?_ Didn't you care? Do me and Mabel and the other people that care about you mean _nothing?”_ He sighs, looking back at the floor. “I really do hate you,” he whispers, “for doing this. It’s like I expect you to reply to my texts o–or something, and I have to constantly remind myself that it will never happen.”

Silence. He swallows. “I–if I ever see you again in the afterlife, I swear to God I'm gonna beat the shit out of you.”

He gets dressed.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, I'm not even entirely sure what to say here, honestly, besides that if you feel worthless you should talk to someone about it.
> 
> At the assembly I went to for a particular someone, there were, of course, kids who were making jokes about it. Obviously there was only that one line I put there, but some of the things these kids said...I would prefer not to think about.
> 
> Just one more reason to have pride in the human race, am I right?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this. Comments/kudos are greatly appreciated.


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